Thursday, April 17, 2014

Roberto Bolano's Third Reich: Book Review


Roberto Bolano's Third Reich
by Armando Ortiz

Bolano is meant to be read at the edge of the city, where the ocean meets land, and honey baked skinned birds flutter about, with locks of gold.

Where you see cinnamon women with floating feet, smelling of sweet navel oranges, and yellow lemon flavored, sweet and sour to the tongue.

On the coast of the city, where the sun dangles above the desert mirage, with waves of dizzying spells, and waters that sway like an old rocking chair, an endless roller coaster ride, a continuous ocean signal of distress, filtered with the conscious mind of bliss.

I'm happy with my L.A., lost in its wilderness of surprise, where short men with moon goddesses walk about, and her morning voice haunts these memories, with body reliving the times I bit down her areola.

Bolano lacks citrus in his writing, because he was happy with black bread, wine and cheese, but it’s as good as it gets.

The edge of Los Angeles, is where the West ends, and citrus auras envelop all where book and sun come alive. 


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